


Ancient History

by hellsbellsellie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood Trauma, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsbellsellie/pseuds/hellsbellsellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester doesn't return home often, and for good reason. He has a girlfriend, a life, a promising law career, and inner demons he'd sooner leave behind in the Winchester home. The one exception is when he returns home for Dean's birthday every year. Neither of the Winchester boys could have anticipated what would happen upon Sam's return, or the wounds that would reopen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains mature material, not excluding implications of childhood trauma (sexual, physical, and emotional), and may be triggering to some. Reader discretion advised.

Sam didn’t come home often. He had good reason. Coming home meant facing the slew of memories, of expectations, of losing himself again to old habits when all he really wanted to do was move on. The fact that hunting was in the family seemed ironic and dangerous, and the young man hated the way that he felt every time he got a call from John, requesting he come home.  
  
Christmas was a pagan ritual that seemed absolutely ludicrous (and Dean, the faithless, complained about how God was dead, so it seemed like a fucking stupid idea to celebrate the mythology around his “son’s” birthday — why didn’t Dean get a national holiday? He was actively doing more good), Easter was just one resurrection story that seemed like bullshit, the last place Sam wanted to spend his birthday was at home, and Father’s Day was a sick reminder.  
  
Dean’s birthday, however, was something that Sam could get behind. Two years into college, he still made the trek, right on the heels of Christmas holiday.  
  
He was packing his clothes (just enough for an overnight trip) when Jessica tapped her fingers on the doorway. Her hair was still wet from her shower, steam slipping through the cracks of the door. She looked even more beautiful now somehow, the relationship still fresh, new, remnants of the mascara she didn’t quite wash off staining the places underneath her eyes. Her lips were plump, her body red in patches (she did enjoy scorching showers), and she smiled. “Hey. You need help?”  
  
“Yeah, I need you to stay right there. It’s easier to be motivated with a hot, naked woman standing in my doorway.” Sam listlessly stuffed his bag, eyes on Jessica instead, drinking her in. The first serious girlfriend he’d had in a while. The first girl who stopped the nightmares, the memories, the monsters under the bed and the monsters who climbed on top of it at night to pull Sam too close and whisper apologies in his ear.  
  
He hadn’t told her. He didn’t plan to.  
  
She laughed, and it was a melodic sound (God, she was too hot for her own good) and made her way to the bed, pulling the bundled shirt from the bag to fold it a little more nicely. “You know,” she said, thoughtfully, nipples hardening in the cold of the room, “I could come with you. Meet your family.”  
  
“No.” Sam hated how quickly and firmly he said it, and he covered it with a breath of a laugh, his arm moving around her waist to stop her, and yank her in. “No… no way. I’m not scaring you off yet.”  
  
“Tell me about them.” Jessica’s fingers found Sam’s hoodie, and she unzipped it, shoving it over his shoulders. “Tell me about your brother, and your dad.” She pressed one button of his red flannel shirt through its hole, and then the next. “What was it like growing up with them?”  
  
“Aha…” Sam reached up, taking her wrists in his hands, and he brought them up to his mouth for a kiss. “If you’re going to undress me, I’d rather not talk about my family.” He loved her smile, he loved the way that she yanked her hands back and continued her mission of unbuttoning his shirt. She left it hanging open, his chest stronger and more formed than his clothed body seemed to recognize, and Sam grinned, his mind off of the things that went bump in the night, for just a little bit longer. “You know that I’m going to be back soon.”  
  
Jessica hummed as though in thought, her palm pressing against Sam’s hard chest, urging him onto the bed. He went, easily, and she bent at the waist, tugging his belt from the buckle. It clinked as it pulled loose, and she looked up the length of his body, his breath quickened already from anticipation. “I like to live one day at a time.”  
  
Sam helped, wriggling out of the confines of his pants, his cock already half hard and his brain going blank as blood rushed to the extremity to aid it the rest of the way. “Yeah…”  
  
“God…” Jessica’s palms slid over Sam’s bared thighs, thumbs rubbing the coarse hair at the base of his erection. “Smartest guy in our class, and all it takes is a stiffy to make you completely useless.”  
  
“Tease.”  
  
“Not for long.” And just like that, her mouth, warm and wet, eased over the head of his swollen cock. Sam’s eyes rolled back, his hands finding his hair, a low grunt of satisfaction slipping through, as her tongue worked him expertly, familiarly, as though she’d been given a roadmap of the curves and ridges, and exactly where to lick to drive him crazy.  
  
Sam’s cellphone began to ring, obnoxious (and terrible timing), and he grunted with dissatisfaction, brought out of the revery of the moment. Jessica’s eyes lifted, eyebrows poised with amusement, her head slowly bobbing as she picked up the pace. She nodded once, as though to tell him to answer it, and Sam’s eyes, pitiful, reluctantly, tore away from her. He stretched to reach the phone on his bedside table, and he flipped it open, voice strained as he answered it, “Hello?”  
  
“Hey, dude, you coming tonight?”  
  
Sam could have cried. The worst voice possible to hear with his cock, hard and weeping, in a beautiful woman’s mouth. The head hit the back of her throat, and he gasped, his free hand slamming against the bed, fisting the duvet. “Yeah, Dean, it’s not really a good time right now.”  
  
“You’re getting laid, aren’t you? Are you getting laid? You smug bastard. Hang up the phone.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m on it.”  
  
“On it? On her?”  
  
“Dean. Stop.” Warning laced his tone, annoyance, but Dean took the hint.  
  
“Got it. Just don’t miss your flight. Dad and I have a hunting trip planned.”  
  
Sam’s heart sank. “Super.”  
  
“Don’t give me that shit. It’s my birthday, and I wanna send some dead bitches hell-side. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”  
  
The line went dead as Sam’s erection started to fade, and he let out a breath through his nose. Jessica finally sucked the length of him, glancing up at Sam, lips pressed together in a near apology. “I can see why you didn’t want to talk about them.”  
  
Sam held open his arm for Jessica to climb against him, and she did, her body still damp. Sam wrapped her up against him, her head against his chest, and he swallowed hard, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s complicated. I’m sorry. My childhood was just… one shit-show after the other. You, Stanford, all of this? It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Escaping it.”  
  
“So why go back?” Jessica shifted, her eyes inquisitive and wide, glancing up the length of Sam’s body. “If it sucks so much, I mean.”  
  
At first, Sam didn’t have a good answer. Not one that he could verbalize, at least. He stared at the ceiling with parted lips, shoulders tensing slightly in a shrug as he hunted for the words. He finally settled on, “Because he’s my brother. And as much as I hate where I came from, I love Dean more.” The answer was enough for Jessica as she turned her face into the side of his neck, buried her lips into it in a few, soft kisses.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but it's leading somewhere, I promise.

John Winchester cleaned the barrel of his .45 caliber Colt M1911A1, methodic movements, with a rag that was falling apart better than it had ever stayed together. “Is he coming?” He didn’t look up from his work, just rubbed, motion after motion, circle after circle.   
  
Dean snorted a laugh, tapping his phone against his palm a few times before discarding it on the dining room table, next to a laminator and four partially completed credit card applications. “Yeah, he’s coming.” Sam hadn’t missed a birthday yet. Dean figured it would be a cold day in hell when and if he ever did. “Sounded like he had a girl over.”   
  
“Huh.” If John was surprised, he didn’t let it show. It was the best he could do to feign some intrigue about the subject. Truth be told, Dean was proud of his little brother. It had taken him some time, but maybe it would be the thing to finally help him grown into a man. Give him confidence. Bring him back home.   
  
There was also a sinking feeling that it could be the end. Nice picket fence, three kids, a dog that didn’t turn into a human when the full moon was over…   
  
Sam wasn’t normal, and he was just fooling himself, but when he was done playing house and had the balls back he’d lost a long time ago, somewhere along the way, Dean would be there. Dean had always been there. He always would be. The fact that he knew Sam better than Sam knew himself at the moment was irrelevant. “Yeah. She sounded nice.”   
  
“You talked to her?”   
  
“Not exactly. Seemed like she had her mouth full.” Dean grabbed a shotgun, loading it, packing rock salt tight into the muzzle. “You think Sammy’s all grown up?”   
  
“No.” Sam tended to be something of a sore subject for John, something that awakened some feeling from the depths of his gut. Nothing in the world was worse than the knowledge that his son couldn’t be protected. John had done his best as a father, he really had, but there were things that had it out for Sam, something that was trickling through the bloodline like a virus, passed down quicker than green eyes or left-handedness.   
  
Dean hesitated, tossing a quick glance at his father, who kept a poker face and eyes on the Colt. The moment passed, and Dean threw it away carelessly, looking back to his own work as he snapped the rifle in place and wore the stock on his shoulder, practicing his aim.


	3. Chapter Three

It wasn’t so much the idea of being dead that got to Sam; it was the image of Dean mourning him that he couldn’t stand.   
  
Fuck these nightmares, fuck these dreams that had him panting and praying and squeezing his eyes so tightly that he couldn’t remember how to open them again. Sam blamed his father for all of it, whether or not he wanted to. Forgive and forget, or treat others, or something.   
  
Saying goodbye to Jessica at the airport had seemed like a farewell before a sentencing. He’d never had to leave someone behind like that before.   
  
On the plane, he boarded first and dragged out his textbook for his new Anthro 125A course (International Criminal Courts and the Question of Global Justice), pouring over it with a highlighter, missing the safety speech entirely. A woman beside of him gripped her hands, thumbs moving over one another again and again, nervous tension building. “Is that book for college?”   
  
Sam looked up, eyebrows lifting, mind not registering the words. “I’m sorry?”   
  
“Your book.” She pointed it, to a highlighted section, as though it would clear it up entirely. His blank look prodded her to repeat herself in its entirety. “Is it for college? Are you a college student? My son is in college. He just started.”   
  
No work to be done on the trip, Sam thought, as he pressed his lips together in a polite smile. He could see what this was now, a woman desperate for conversation over the dull roar of the air conditioning overhead and the perceived threat of flying. She was trying to distract herself. His fingers drummed against the open pages for a few moments before he held open the front of the book, presenting it to her, like a gift. “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking to get into law school in a few years.”   
  
“Polite boy.” Her voice was frayed as she nodded a few times, patting her lap, eyes averting. “You’re a polite boy. Your mother must have raised you well.”   
  
A pang rushed through Sam, a knee-jerk reaction that wanted him to attack the comment, a hair-trigger inside of him that wanted to go off. Instead, he closed the book entirely, folding it back into his backpack before shoving it under the seat in front of him. “Thank you. Uh… you know, if you want to switch seats…” He motioned to the window beside of him, dragging the blind up and down. “…you’re free to. Sometimes, it helps me just to look outside.”   
  
“You must fly a lot. Do you fly a lot?” Even her hair seemed wired, a mess of a brown bun with frayed bits that circled her face.   
  
If she took the time to tame it, it would probably be as wavy as Jessica’s, Sam thought. She was older, but almost pretty. Probably stunning about twenty years ago. Her eyes were bloodshot through her glasses.   
  
“Uh… no, ma’am.” Not unless he had to. “About once a year. My brother’s birthday is today, so I’m spending the night in Kansas. Back here tomorrow night.”   
  
“You’re a good boy. A good boy. Your mother must be proud.”   
  
Sam cleared his throat. “I hope she would be.”   
  
He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the plane jerked with its landing. Sam was sweating, soaked in it, his face mercifully covered by his hoodie, tucked against the window of the plane. Dead. He was dead. He was lying there, on an uncovered mattress, in a rotting… cabin, room, something. And Dean with his bloodshot eyes, tears, resolve, anger, frustration, furious with himself and his failure… He was trembling as the flight attendant’s voice came over the speaker, announcing their arrival.   
  
The woman beside of him let out a breath through her lips, pursed, her shoulders slumping forward suddenly. “We made it.”   
  
Sam used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe his matted bangs from his face, pushing the hoodie off, the chill from the temperature in the plane doing nothing except making him want to vomit.   
  
Or maybe the chill was just a cold spot. A spirit back to haunt him, and…   
  
He angrily pushed the thought from his mind as he grabbed his backpack and rose, cursing himself for how hard bad habits died.


	4. Chapter Four

“Will you help me?”   
  
Sam, too tall to stand to full height, was hunched over the seat in front of him on the plane, anxious to exit. The woman next to him was crowding the aisle, her frizzy hair seeming somewhat more relaxed now that they were officially on the ground. She pointed to the storage above, at her bag which seemed far too bulging to have made it on, a somewhat bubbly personality emerging now that she was no longer praying for her life. Sam nodded, answered, “Yes, Ma’am.”   
  
There was no room for him in the aisle, and so he waited, the flight attendants busying themselves with opening the cabin door, but the woman’s eyebrows raised at him expectantly. Sam cleared his throat, muttered, “Right,” and moved, scooting into a space so small that he didn’t belong there. He yanked the luggage (even with his strength, it took him a few solid tugs), letting it rest on the seat where the woman was sitting.   
  
“Thank you,” she said, and seemed sincere. “You conked out right away. Before I could introduce myself.”   
  
Sam couldn’t move his arms, but he pressed his lips together in a smile, shifting his bag over his shoulder, to extend his hand as much as possible. “Sam.”   
  
“Mary.”   
  
His gaze snapped to hers, almost incredulous, just in time for… her eyes to flash, a dark black that extended through the whites of her eyes, and then just as quickly return to normal. And for a moment, Sam’s world went dark. The sounds in the plane gave way to white noise, like an A-bomb had exploded and he was left with nothing except for the ringing in his ears.   
  
Imagination was a bitch. That was all it was. Imagination. Too long cooped up in one place, nightmare on the plane, some lady who was too much trouble, and the promise of a long night with his father and brother. That’s all it was. That’s all it was. That’s. All. It. Was.   
  
Still, Sam was shaking as the other passengers began to disembark. He put her suitcase on the ground, absently hearing himself say, “That was my mother’s name,” before falling in line behind her to exit. Mercifully, she didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t have to look into her eyes again.   
  
Dean was waiting at the gate. He wouldn’t have admitted it, not to anyone (probably not even to himself), but he looked nervous. Hands dug deeply into the pockets of his leather jacket, rocking forward and backward on his heels, movements so ingrained in grounding himself that it was almost laughable. With each surge of people who left the terminal, his gaze grew more and more anxious, scanning the crowds for any sight of Sam. Once more (for the twelfth time in the last fifteen minutes), his eyes darted to the arrival and departure screens. Flight 293, Terminal B, from San Jose Mineta International Airport, ARRIVED.   
  
“God damn it, Sam, how long does it take to get off a god damn plane?”   
  
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice broke, her brown hair frizzy and unkempt, glasses that concealed her bloodshot eyes and the disapproval behind them. “Language.”   
  
Dean smiled, pretty, polite, a casual _fuck you_ implicit. “My apologies.”   
  
She rolled her bag passed him, and Dean turned his attention forward again, eyes rolling. Eyes rolling right into Sam. He tried to hide the relief that his brother had actually boarded the plane back in San Jose, pat him on the shoulder, a little too rough to seem unaffected. “You look like shit.”   
  
“I retract my happy birthday.”   
  
“Bitch.”   
  
Sam’s arms found Dean’s shoulders, and he hugged too tightly for a moment, pulling back only to say, “Jerk.”   
  
“Impala’s outside.”   
  
“You could get into an airport parking lot with your trunk like that?” Sam could only assume the collection of firearms, questionable liquids, and religious iconography Dean had accumulated over the past year.   
  
“You could get through airport security with hair that long, pretty boy?” Dean mussed Sam’s hair, who batted him off like a pesky fly.   
  
“Don’t touch me. Stop it.”   
  
The brothers started towards the airport door in tandem, Dean’s fingers finding Sam’s hair again, who ducked. Bad idea. It only brought him further into Dean’s access, who then hooked his arm around Sam’s neck entirely to drag him through the sliding glass doors. “It’s my birthday.”   
  
Sam stumbled, shoving at Dean’s waist, suddenly feeling ten years old again. “Ow, Jesus, Dean, I mean it, off!…”   
  
“Nope.”   
  
It wasn’t until they reached the Impala that Dean let go, finally, giving Sam a little toss towards the front seat, satisfied. Sam climbed in, tossing his bag in the floorboard, pouting. He pulled down the visor, trying to piece back together his hair, frowning when it didn’t seem to want to cooperate. “You’re such a jerk. I don’t know why I agreed to come home.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah. Bitch.”   
  
The closest thing to _“I love you”_ they could get.   
  
The sun was just starting to set, and the glare (unbearable) penetrated the car windshield. But Dean drove through it, seeming impassible.   
  
“How’s Dad?” Sam finally asked, only half curious.   
  
“Good. He’s loading up the truck.”   
  
“Mm.” Sam knew what that meant. The back of the truck was more than likely filled to the brim with gasoline, salt, holy water, and who the hell knew what else. He noticed an EMF reader sticking out of the inside pocket of Dean’s jacket, but quickly averted his eyes, as though he’d seen something he clearly shouldn’t have. His lips parted, almost speaking, lecturing about how there was more to life than hunting ghosts, or how it was so easy to leave behind, how there was really nothing to it, but thought better of it. He, instead, lapsed into a sigh, arms crossing, sinking into the car seat.   
  
Dean’s eyes flickered a few times from his brother to the road, then back again. He maintained physical contact by patting Sam’s leg once, garnering his attention. “What about you, Sammy? I’m guessing that girl wasn’t a one-night stand?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“So… a girlfriend?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Well, shit, Sam, don’t waste your breath or anything.”   
  
Shoulders lifted in response as the younger Winchester shook his head. “I just don’t know what to say about it.”   
  
Dean’s thumb lifted from the wheel of the car, as though it was shrugging for the rest of his body. “I don’t know, how did you meet her, what’s her name, what’s she like, what’s her cup size…”   
  
Sam scoffed, turning to Dean, expression reading disbelief. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? If someone were to make a stereotype of a person, you would be it. You are exactly what I would expect.”   
  
There was a pause. Awkward. Uncomfortable. And finally, Dean smiled. “Thanks.” 


	5. Chapter Five

The contrast inside was incredible.   
  
Sam noticed the shift instantly, even though he’d only been in the home for a few minutes. He figured that he might have had something to do with that; he tensed up the moment they pulled up in front, and Dean put the car into park. It wasn’t the home he’d grown up in; it wasn’t even the home after the home he’d grown up, but it had been the home he’d left, and frankly, Sam was surprised that his dad had stayed in one place for so long. It didn’t hold as terrible of memories as the home they left on that street in Lawrence, but it had John Winchester, and that was almost as bad.   
  
In the car, Dean had asked, “You okay?” He’d asked the question simply, almost like he cared, though it was clear to both of them that Sam would lie. Sam hadn’t even realized that he’d been staring at the house, motionless, until Dean broke him out of the thought entirely.   
  
“What? Oh. Yeah.” Monosyllabic. He’d tried to sound convincing without being wholly untruthful.   
  
Dean’s hand had suspended on the handle of the Impala, waiting, as though giving Sam an opportunity to tell him that he wanted to be driven back. Go back to Stanford. Dean had wanted to tell him that the car ride was enough, that the fact that Sam came here at all was enough to fulfill his brotherly duties, but when Dean didn’t hear anything further, no dissenting comments, he nodded, said, “Yeah, all right,” and pushed open the car door.   
  
And now, Sam was standing inside, staring at the at the hunched over back of his father, who seemed thoroughly disinterested in the door that had just opened. _How the hell does Dean put up with this?_   
  
Very well, it seemed, because Dean went right up to the bear of a man, clapped his father on the back, and said, “Gang’s all here.”   
  
John Winchester finally turned, only slightly, offering Sam a gruff smile. Sam suddenly felt like he was a child again, his hand dug deeply into the pockets of his hoodie, and he smiled, awkwardly. “Hi, Dad.” He lifted a hand from inside the fabric of the pockets, then lapsed back into relative silence, staring at a spot on the wall passed his father.   
  
“Good of you to come for your brother’s birthday.” That was it. No _welcome home_ , no _it’s nice to see you_ , no _how was your flight_. Just curt acknowledgement of Sam’s fraternal unity. Sam could feel his jaw set instantly, his eyes darting unnoticed to the door, making sure it was still there.   
  
“Yes, Sir.” Keep it simple. That was the name of the game at this point. Keep it simple, and he might get through this yet.   
  
“Glad to see you two have opened up to one another.” Dean’s voice attempted to break the tension in the room as he grabbed a rifle, tossing it into an open duffle bag on the dining room table (the table had never been used for eating, always staging, and it had more scuff marks on the top than it did polished wood at this point, even though it was the only leftover piece of furniture they had from when Mary was alive). “Now if you two are finished singing kumbaya, I’d like to get this show on the road before daylight.”   
  
“I think I’m going to sit this one out.” The revelation came as a shock to everyone except Sam, who’d uttered the words quickly, having practiced them over and over under his breath. “I’ll buy you a drink when you two get back, Dean. We’ll go out, hit a bar, have a beer. It’ll be fine.”   
  
John recovered first, his mouth setting into a thin line as he checked the handgun, counting the number of iron bullets inside. Dean, however, looked as though he’d been punched in the gut. “What do you mean, you’re going to sit this one out? It’s my birthday, dude.” As if that was the greatest excuse in the world to get to have his way.   
  
Sam shrugged, his hands still dug deeply into pockets, guilt seething into his chest even though he was successful at hiding it. “I’ll buy you a drink.” Repetition, repetition, repetition. Feet planted firmly in the sand. Standing convictions.   
  
John zipped the duffle bag, his shoulders tight, and without acknowledging Sam’s presence, grunted, “Come on.” To Dean. Like Sam wasn’t even there. There was a strange moment where Dean was caught between a rock and a hard place, father and brother, the man who abandoned them and the man who didn’t, and Dean wasn’t sure which was which, really. There was a near panic in his eyes, a decision he couldn’t quite make, and he finally turned, said:   
  
“I think… I’m gonna stay here, too.”   
  
Sam couldn’t hear himself think for a few moments. That white noise came back, the shock of the moment so intense that he felt weak, and had to bend his knees slightly so they wouldn’t crumble. “Dean… no, it’s your birthday. Go out with Dad, it’s fine. I’ll just get some reading in, and—”   
  
“You’re here once a year, Sammy. I’ll hunt the other three sixty four.”   
  
“Dean.”   
  
“Sam.”   
  
A stand off. Sam trying to be polite, Dean being firm in a way that left very little room for argument, John Winchester not regarding either, his shoulder to the door. Sam’s mouth parted, but even he had to admit it was somewhat of a relief. If it weren’t for John, who seemed to be avoiding him anyway.   
  
“You boys be good.” Problem solved, as John snapped the words under his breath, as though they were ten and fourteen again, and he pushed himself the rest of the way out of the door, mission hardly aborted even though the reason behind it had been obliterated.   
  
“Yes, Sir.” The boys spoke in unison, some muscle memory that prevented them from replying with anything else, or worse, not replying at all. But the tension in the room instantly melted the moment John was gone, Sam’s breath evened out a little, and he wasn’t afraid to take his eyes from the spot on the wall.   
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, watching as Dean dug into the refrigerator for a few beers. “You could have gone.”   
  
“And miss out on annoying my freak-tastic kid brother? No way, Slovik.” Dean twisted the caps from the beers and held one out for Sam, extending the neck of his own bottle for Sam to tap in cheers. Sam did.   
  
“I’m just saying, you wanted to hunt, you should have hunted.”   
  
“Nah. I didn’t drive you a freakin’ hour from the airport just to leave you home alone.”   
  
Sam nodded, his heart swelling a little. Dean. Sacrificing for him again. Anything from the last bowl of Lucky Charms to his own wants on a regular basis. Dean didn’t understand Sam’s reticence. He didn’t know why Sam avoided home quite as much as he did. Dean deified Dad, and didn’t notice how much Sam hated him. Sam wanted to keep it that way. But Dean sacrificed for Sam, again and again, even without knowing, and somehow, that made it sweeter. “So,” Sam started, relaxing onto the worn and mold-rotten sofa, “what’s new with you?” 


End file.
